gemes
by crashmypartyhard
Summary: (n.) the anger one feels inside but cannot find a way to express it. (Eugene/Jerome/Jerome/Vincent)


"You know, I wasn't drunk," he says, softly, tilting his head to the other man, whose face is morphed into a close replica of his own. He establishes eye contact and doesn't break it.

The other man, calling himself Jerome, though not really Jerome, shifts the other farther up the bed, pulling drunken, lethargic weight coupled with dead legs. "What d'you mean you weren't drunk?" he asks, curious. He's dressed in a sharp suit, wrinkled slightly from the night's events. He feels stiff, tired.

Eugene, the real Jerome, though calling himself by his middle name, keeps eye contact through half-lidded, tired eyes. "When I walked in front of that car." There's a matter-of-fact, _oh-you-should-know-this_ tone to his voice. It worries Jerome, even though he knows that tone is present nearly all of the time, and his eyebrows point hesitantly downwards, unprepared for the reply.

His hands smooth out Eugene's clothing, a suit similar to his own. "What car?" he asks.

"I stepped right out in front of it…" Eugene trails off, eyes flickering to the ceiling, and then back to Jerome's as he says, slower and quieter, now, "Never been more sober in my life."

There's a pause, filled with tension and realization. The replica's breath is caught in his throat, and he forces a reply, breaking the silence. "Go to sleep," He commands.

"Couldn't even get that right, could I?" Eugene asks, more to himself. Bitterness laces his voice like salt on a martini glass. He sees the disinterest and annoyance start to creep into Jerome's movements and expression and reaches out with his right arm and pulls him closer by the collar.

"If at first you don't succeed…try, try again."

It could've been a hiss, but instead Eugene's voice decrescendos to a whisper.

His hand slackens and it falls across his chest as Jerome commands, yet again, "Go to sleep."

Instead of doing what is asked, Eugene locks his fingers around the knot of Jerome's tie and pulls him close—closer this time, and Jerome flinches in surprise, suddenly avoiding eye contact.

Eugene looks him over with his eyes, silent for a few select seconds. He's vying for his attention, staring at his eyes and hoping they'll glance up and meet his. Finally, they do.

"I'm proud of you, Vincent." He slackens again and lays his head back on the pillow beneath his head. His arm splays across his chest. He called him by his _birth_ name. His God-Child name. The one he abandoned in pursuit of the stars.

Jerome replies with a remark similar of the kind Eugene would make: "You must be drunk to call me Vincent." A small smile tugs at the left side of his mouth.

Eugene doesn't smirk as he normally would, but instead stares intently into the eyes less prettier than his. He reaches up towards them and his hand is suddenly cupping Vincent's—_Jerome's_—face. He runs his thumb across his eyelashes. Eyes dilate. Breath hitches. Jerome-_Vincent?_—doesn't break eye contact. He freezes, undecided.

Eugene's hand floats away from his face and slowly hovers down to the other man's tie. His face is pulled closer, and Eugene lifts his head from his pillow, their lips brushing. His breath is trapped in his throat, and he allows some to escape when he closes his eyes and presses his lips to Vincent's.

_It's Vincent this time. _

He hasn't fallen in love with _himself_. God, no.

He hates his own image because it's the image of failure.

Of a silver medal.

Of a broken back.

Eugene pulls away and holds in his breath. Their lips are slightly parted and he's afraid to make eye contact. But after what feels like a millennia, his eyes lift to Vincent's like a rocketship to the stars.

_My eyes are still prettier._

Both their eyes close and they seal it with another kiss. Instead of wrapped around the knot of Vincent's tie, Eugene's hands are clutching the back of his neck. Soon the other joins, slipping down to frame his face and clutch his jawline, pulling him closer. Vincent's hands are on either side of Eugene's head, slowly intertwining into his hair.

Eugene doesn't know how much he needs love other than what can be bought. He's desperate, wanting to be closer and closer to Vincent. The heel of his hands rests on Vincent's neck, and he feels the pulse ten-thousand beats overdue arc high. When Vincent's hands curl in his hair, each and every follicle stands on end, electrically charged. He feels lovely. He feels as close to happy as he's ever been. For once, he can feel something. And he can feel it even through a haze of booze and cigarettes.

Vincent doesn't know what to think or do, but he knows he can feel his pulse pounding, blood growing hot, coursing through his veins. Flashes of Eugene's face appear, the fascination from when he asked what Titan was like this time of year and he got an answer less than expected; the long gaze they shared when Eugene engulfed a whole glass of wine like you would a can of beer. Small things. Unnoticeable to others, but pure gold to him. Eugene—no, _Jerome_—is _gold_. The silver medal he keeps in his inner jacket pocket is only a piece of metal—no matter what he will try to say to make you think otherwise, it has no effect on Vincent. He can feel Jerome, Jerome, the metronome's heartbeat against his own, wrists against neck. He feels alive, he knows he's alive, even after ten-thousand overdue heartbeats.

After they pull away from each other, Jerome wraps his arms around Vincent, brow furrowed and head tucked underneath the other man's chin. He opens his eyes when he feels Vincent's hand on his face. He lifts his head to make eye contact, worry shining in his eyes. "I don't want you to leave," he whispers.

"I know." Vincent says. His fingertips brush the side of Jerome's face. "You're golden, you know that?" he whispers, allowing a small smile to spread across his face.

Jerome closes his eyes, laughing softly and shaking his head.


End file.
